Lunch consisted of a cold ham-and-cheese sandwich and another thermos of coffee. Then the lawyer came. He was a ruddy-faced fellow and was hard to understand on account of him talking with a thick lisp, but he seemed to know his law and told me not to worry—he was reasonably certain he could get my sentence reduced to ten years in prison. Twenty years at the most.
After he left I did some push-ups on the concrete floor of the jailhouse and chewed on the thought of a long stretch of time behind bars. The gal at the front desk brought me over a Bible and I read through the first letter to the Corinthians, finished it, and started in on the second. By then it was dinnertime, chicken tortillas with a side of peas. I was glad to be eating, but it was nothing like when Augusta was at the helm.
At 10 p.m. I did another few sets of push-ups, then went to bed. Thursday was over, and still the person I wanted to see most hadn’t come.
At 6 a.m. the next morning Bobbie came into the jailhouse.
It was Friday, and a clear, bright sky already showed through the windows. The gal at the front desk wasn’t in yet. Neither was the sheriff or Deputy Roy, so it was just Bobbie and me alone together, although I reckoned a few other rough men would be thrown in the clink by day’s end, this being the start of the weekend and all.
Bobbie stood in front of the bars for a long while without saying anything. I kept my eyes to the floor. She wasn’t sitting and she wasn’t pacing. She just stood there looking at me, and I feared she was eyeing me with wariness, like a human eyes a leopard in a cage at the zoo.
Finally she spoke.
“He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispian’s day.’ Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day.”
She looked to be finished, so I raised my head and asked, “Shakespeare?”
She nodded. “Do you know what that poem is about, Rowdy?”
I shook my head.
“It’s St. Crispin’s Day speech, from Henry V. The poem is talking about the glory of noble actions, about remembering deeds past when men fought for what mattered. I think you know something about doing that, Rowdy. If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor. Do you get what it means yet?”
I shook my head but tried to smile. “If I live a thousand years, I’ll never understand why you persist in talking in such riddles, Bobbie. You’re right full of sassafras, aren’t you?”
The girl grinned.
“How’s Sunny?” I asked.
“She’s beautiful.” Bobbie reached into her pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and held it out to me between the bars. “She drew pictures and colored a get-well card for you.” Bobbie coughed. “It’s for her uncle.”
I nodded then looked away.
“My sister’s taking good care of her. You don’t need to worry about a thing. Emma does really well with children, and already the child’s learned a few words. How old is she now, about five?”
I nodded.
Bobbie coughed again. The girl went to the side wall, pulled over a chair in front of the cell, and sat down. “She’s not your niece, is she?”
A hard lump went down my throat and I whispered, “How can you tell?”
“It’s her colorings,” Bobbie said. “Her cheekbones. The way her eyes are set. She looks exactly like you.” The girl chuckled. “That is—when your face isn’t so messed up.” There was kindness in her voice, not sass.
“Sunny’s my doing,” I said. “She’s my blood and kin. I hardly know her, but I love her with all my heart.”
Bobbie pointed to the card. “She drew you a sunflower. There’s a packet of red licorice whips next to it in the picture and a yellow ribbon. Do you know what it all means?”
Dang it all.
A tear slid out of my eye and down my cheek. I never cry. Not ever. I jumped out of a C-47 into a hail of gunfire in Normandy. I took a bullet in Holland. I spent time in the hospital ward, looking around at all the spent men. One with his leg blown off. One with no jaw. Another burned so badly he hardly looked human. All that time I never cried. But when I thought of my daughter growing up without her daddy, a hard swallow went down my throat. It wasn’t me I was crying for. It was for her. Every daughter needs her father. Maybe she could come see me in the state pen sometimes. Maybe Halligan would bring her by. Maybe even Bobbie would, if she thought to visit.
“Thank you, Bobbie,” I said. “Thank you for being so kind.”
The girl smiled. “You just said my name. You don’t say my name enough. I like to hear you say it.”
“I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment,” I said. “I truly am.”
She was gone after that. There was nothing more to say between us, I reckoned. Nothing more that could be spoken by words. I was who I was and I did what I did. A fella could never truly change, could he?
TWENTY-THREE
Well, in two weeks’ time I appeared before a judge. It was only a preliminary hearing and he established a date far in the future for a full trial for my misdeeds in the Rancho Springs transgression—Thursday, March 6, 1947, which would be one week exactly before the end of my year as preacher in Cut Eye.
My bail was set at ten thousand dollars. Halligan spoke up for me and promised I was no flight risk and that he was personally vouching for my character, so the judge lowered the bail to five hundred bucks, which Halligan wrote a check for right then and there.
Halligan drove me back to Cut Eye, and I found that free air blowing in the window mighty easy to breathe. We stopped first at Gummer’s filling station. Clay Cahoon drove an old 1932 Chevy pickup truck, which Mert said he wouldn’t need for a while. It was mine to use in the meantime. The Chevy ran okay and had those fine swooped fenders coming off the front, and Gummer already had it filled up with gasoline. The windshield was cleaned so it shined spotless, and the level of air in the tires was just plump.
The sheriff took me over to the jailhouse after that. We went inside his office, he closed the door, and we had a long talk. “A bargain’s a bargain,” he said, and the original deal between him and I still stood. He understood how life had spiraled downward for me and how it made sense that I got tangled up in blowing up the bank in Rancho Springs. Nevertheless, a good excuse didn’t forgive my actions none, and for my part in the Rancho Springs transgression, the law would indeed need to sort out what to do with me come March 6.
In regards to my first crime—robbing the bank in Cut Eye—Halligan admitted he wavered on how best to proceed there. On one hand, he was obliged to uphold the law, and now since I’d told him the truth, the whole story, and nothing but the truth, the duty of his badge mandated him turning me in. He scratched his head and explained how it was his duty as a peace-loving community member of Cut Eye, however, that kept him from pulling the trigger on me.
Many of the men in the town of Cut Eye were seeing better days thanks to my work as preacher, Halligan said, and he still had hopes that I might fulfill my year and help turn the town around once and for good. I’d returned all the money for the Cut Eye bank robbery besides, so there was no harm–no foul, and no one except him was wise to my unlawful behavior. He looked me steady in the eye when he said this, adding that he was fixing to keep his mouth shut, at least until my year was up. In the meantime, “Keep proving your worth around here,” he said. “You’re not doing as bad as you think,” and he shook my hand.
I breathed a big sigh of relief at those words and shook his hand right back. Then he pointed to the door and said “git.” It was near lunchtime, Halligan had other business to attend to, so I stopped in for eating at the café just by myself, then drove back to the parsonage in the Chevy. Halligan insisted I continue using the parsonage as my residence until my trial was over and the sentencing finished.
I chewed on one more thing. After he’d shaken my hand, he’d mentioned how the night previous the deacon board had held a special meeting to determine my status as church employee. Deputy Roy was all for firing me outright. A few church members had talked to the sheriff earlier in the day and recommended me be placed on “administrative leave,” whatever that meant. The three old ladies who hated me wanted me strung up and lynched. But Sheriff Barker had put his fist on the table at the deacon meeting and said this was America—where a man was innocent until proven guilty. That meant I still had my job as reverend until the trial—and to spread the word.
The parsonage was exactly as I’d left it. The loaded Springfield was still under my bed, and blood was still on my floor from where Crazy Ake walloped me. It was Monday afternoon, so I wandered around the place, then went outside to the awning and cranked out a few sets of overhang pull-ups. I hiked out to the pine stand and cut firewood for the rest of the afternoon, drove into town for dinner, then went back to the parsonage and slept heavy.
The next morning, the regular deacon meeting was canceled, seeing how the board had just met, so I drove to the café for breakfast, then came back to the church. Parked sideways in the gravel was a dusty 1934 Plymouth, the world’s lowest priced car, so I knew Mert was inside the church office, undoubtedly wondering if I’d show. I strode inside to say hello for our meeting. She was doing the attendance charts, same as always, and she looked up as I walked in.
“You’re late,” she said.
I gave her a half smile and sat down. “Maybe you were wondering if I still worked here at all.”
“I heard. Although I ain’t sure you ever worked much around here even before this last commotion of yours.” She stifled a smirk, went back to the charts as if I wasn’t there, then added under her breath, “I’m doing the attendance by myself today. You best get straightaway to your other duties while your job is still paying for your meals.”
“Well, that’s not a bad idea,” I said, then leaned back in a chair and looked at the church secretary. “How’s the charts look anyway?”
I surmised the answer already. Attendance was down a mite. I’d been in church last Sunday and sat in the back row. Bobbie had preached a real barn burner in my absence, and most folks were there except a few of the fellas I’d worked so hard to bring in, which I’d need to follow up on as soon as possible. I reckoned it might take a few more fights down at the tavern.
Emma Hackathorn and her children weren’t there neither. Folks was saying Emma was sick, but I knew better. The sheriff had moved them all over to his house until Crazy Ake was found. He didn’t want her children talking in public about Sunny yet, for fear of her safety. So it was better for them to all stay at his home for a spell. Gummer was coming by every morning and escorting Emma and the little ones to her day’s work at the mercantile. The sheriff himself walked the older children to and from school.
Mert stayed intent on her work and kept her head down. She paused mid-chart only to say, “You best start today by visiting my husband. Clay told me this morning he wants you to come around as soon as possible. He wonders how his truck is doing.”
“Is that so?”
“He thinks it needs a new engine. He wants to make sure you’ve got enough cash to keep it running until it dies.”
That was a curious thing for Mert to say. Gummer was charged with keeping all vehicles associated with the church running, and Mert knew that.
“When did you say he wants me to come over?” I asked.
Mert looked up. “Right away. He ain’t feeling well this morning, so you best be quick.” She wore that curious expression again, and I knew something else was churning in the woman’s mind.
I climbed in Clay Cahoon’s old Chevy and drove east on the Lost Truck road, passing over Highway 2, and kept heading east. Mert and Clay’s place was a hundred-acre dirt farm about two miles out of town. A hundred acres was tiny for Texas standards, but it kept them eating when Clay felt well enough to work the fields.
When I drove up the gravel road heading into the place, all looked quiet. The house looked snug enough, although it needed a new coat of paint. A loose shutter swung in the breeze.
I knocked on the door. Clay didn’t show, so I walked around to the barn and found it empty as well. No horses or cows. No sheep or goats or pigs. Not even a chicken. I’d never inquired of Mert exactly what she and Clay farmed, but their place looked downright deserted. The barn was bare of machinery and even low on tools and garden implements. I went back to the front door again and knocked.
This time Clay opened. He was stooped and hobbling with the help of two canes. “Come inside, Reverend. Sit,” he said with a grunt. “I heard you the first time you knocked but couldn’t get to the door in time.” He shuffled back to the davenport, sat heavily, and hooked a tube from an oxygen tank underneath his nose.
“How you feeling today, Clay?”
“Had better.” He motioned with his head to the kitchen. “Mert made a fresh pot this morning. Care for a cup?”
“Nah, I drank myself wet at the café this morning, but thanks. How’d your operation take?”
“That doctor was a horse’s behind.” Clay coughed and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. He coughed again, and this time I noticed a streak of blood when he pulled away the cloth.
“Sorry to hear that.”
He held up his hand for me to shut up. He was breathing heavy. “Lemme cut to the chase, Rowdy. Got a question for you, and I need a straight answer. Promise you’ll level with me.” He looked my direction with expectancy in his eyes.
I looked at him closely. “Sir?”
“Before you were a reverend you spent time in the crowbar hotel, right? Not the Cut Eye jail, but an out-of-state jail? I ain’t judging you. I just needs to know.”
“Yes sir, six months,” and I nodded without being sure where he was going with his questioning.
“Those prisons, the big ones, they got privies in the cells?”
“Sir?”
“A place for a man to turn over his wheelbarrow when he needs to go in a hurry.” Clay coughed again. “Bathrooms. I needs to know.”
I nodded. “There’s usually a commode in each cell, sir, yes.”
“And how much moon-floss do they give you in jail? As much as a man needs?”
I checked myself to make sure I understand his terminology then nodded. “Sir, I never ran short of toilet paper, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Clay’s chest shook with a long rattle of coughing. His ribs rose and fell and a pained furrow rose on his forehead. “Okay—that’s all good to know. Here’s why I called you here. My wife told you she stole the church scratch, didn’t she? Be truthful with me, Reverend. Did she?”
I nodded and kept my mouth shut to see where he was going with this.
Clay pursed his lips and said, “Well, I got some news to add to that.”
“Sir?”
“What my wife told you is wrong.”
“Sir?”
“I’ll spell it out for you—my wife is a liar.”
I squinted my eyes as a question.
“You heard me right, Reverend. My wife, Mert Cahoon, is the biggest liar in Cut Eye.” He looked me straight in the eye. “The full truth is that even though Mert Cahoon is a liar, Mert Cahoon is no thief.” He coughed so hard I thought he was nearly dead.
“You need a glass of water?” I asked. “I can get—”
“It was me who took that church money, Reverend! I stole it all! Not Mert. She didn’t steal a thing.” Another long string of coughing followed. “Mert only said what she said to protect me. The wife figured folks would go easier if they heard the money was stole by a gal.” He let loose with another long string of coughs.
I stood anyway and walked toward the kitchen, not sure where to land except to listen. He was speaking in those bare-bones sentences, letting loose all his secrets, and a deeper liberty was beginning to spill forth. I called over my sho
ulder, “I’m going to have that cup of coffee now, Clay. I’ll get you a glass of water while I’m at it.” I rummaged around in the cabinets and found a cup.
“No water. Get me coffee—” Clay yelled from the sitting room. “Two sugars and a cream.”
I found an extra cup, poured his and poured mine, then opened the cupboards. There wasn’t any sugar. I opened the refrigerator. Wasn’t any cream. Wasn’t much of anything—no butter or eggs, lettuce or jam. I stood staring at the empty refrigerator. My mind swirled around what Clay had just said—around that as well as the empty fridge, then I took both cups of black coffee back to the sitting room and handed one cup to Clay. There was no side table to set the cup on, and I looked harder around the room. There was Clay’s chair and one other chair. That was it. No rug on the floor. No pictures on the wall. No wood near the fireplace. It’s funny what you don’t notice when you first walk in a place.
“Mr. Cahoon.” I looked him straight in the eyes. “How come you didn’t sell your truck too?”
“What you asking, boy?”
“You sold everything else, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Well, I didn’t sell the truck because you needed it. Mert needed her car. You’re the minister at my church and you needed something to drive. Everything else we could live without. Reckoned it was the least I could do for the church.”
“But you got no food. Why didn’t you tell someone?”
He looked at me a long time, then cleared his throat and said, “Because we manage.”
“Do you?” My comeback was quick. “What’s going on with you two, anyway?”
He coughed, looked at the side wall, and sighed. “How old are you, Reverend? I know that’s a personal question to ask a man, but I’m curious.”
Feast for Thieves Page 19